


Stoneheart

by humorous



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Sequel, read heartless before this!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23191345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humorous/pseuds/humorous
Summary: Hydra has fallen. But where one head perishes, two more will rise up in its place.In which Asset 53 finds herself in the midst of her most brutal war to date and must fight to save the world, and hopefully herself.
Relationships: Tony Stark x OC
Kudos: 4





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i'm hoping i'll end up being as proud of this one as i am of 'heartless,' so we'll just have to see. :)

**HIS EYES FLEW** open as soon as he heard the ringtone. It was completely dark in his room, not even a shred of moonlight peeking through the curtains that gently brushed against the window frame as the breeze filtered in.

He rubbed his eyes and felt around for the lamp that sat on the table beside his bed that was obnoxiously too large for just him. When he found the switch, he flicked it and squeezed his eyes shut as the room flooded with yellow light. Holding one eye open in the dramatic change of lighting, he swung his legs out of bed and sat there for a minute.

The ringtone was nothing more than a simple melody, the default setting. He'd never thought he'd hear it ring, despite it being a gift from the person who was undoubtedly calling. When he opened the envelope and found a flip phone inside, he never thought anything of it. He was convinced that nothing would come after it, that it would sit in darkness and collect dust.

But alas, here he was, in the dim light of his room, staring at the carpeted floor and his feet that hovered off the edge of the bed. He wanted to let the phone ring, wanted to hear it stop ringing, echoing into silence. Frankly, he wanted to forget that the phone even existed. Then again, frequently making sure it was fully charged didn't exactly go along with those hopes.

Reaching to the bottom drawer in the bedside table, he pulled it open, the incessant ringing getting clearer, more piercing. Sitting in the deep drawer, alone, the phone lit up, waiting to be answered. Instead of giving in to temptation and morbid curiosity, he sat there looking at it, willing it to be silent once more. And finally, after a few more rings, the sound cut off. The minuscule screen darkened, and the room was silent once more, though the ringtone still echoed in his ears.

He couldn't ignore the wave of relief that washed over him. He wanted to feel ashamed, but all he felt was a numb annoyance.  _ How dare he call after this long? We're better off without any communication at all. Nothing good can come of a conversation _ .

However hard he tried to be annoyed, he couldn't quiet the voice in his head that urged him to pick up the phone, to call back the number on the phone, to see if anything was wrong. Because what if? What if there was something that was really wrong, pertaining to the safety of the entire world? 

"Fuck," he cursed under his breath, standing up. Running a hand through his hair that stood up in every position from his wrestled night of sleep, he stumbled out of the room. Not sure of where to go, he found himself in the nearest kitchen of the compound.

He'd started staying in the Avengers compound after his relationship with Pepper had fallen apart. Without her, their house became more lonely and more empty than before. And without anyone there, his nightmares became more frequent, more difficult to ignore, to prevent. Soon, he'd been overcome with nightmares each night, distressing images flashing through his mind. 

The most recurrent one was...

_ No. _ He couldn't let himself slip. He'd been doing so well, keeping that part of his life locked away in a box in his mind. He couldn't go back there, he couldn't think of it, couldn't think of  _ her _ —

Too late.

His mind spun, he was drowning in the memories. Her face, her beautifully evil face was etched into his mind, her lips calling out his name in a way that he'd almost fallen in love with. He felt her hands on his shoulders as they danced on the night they met, her eyes holding his. It was intoxicating, her mere  _ presence _ . He couldn't get enough of her, couldn't get rid of the feeling of her hands grazing his scruff, his hands against hers, and he couldn't stop hearing her call his name—

In an instant, the images stopped. They reduced to ash in his brain and gave way to the cold, dark kitchen around him. Looking down, he could see his hands on the counter, curled into tight fists. The sore ache traveled up his arms, the result of having beat his fists on the hard counter top. His vision blurred for a moment, but he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head furiously, bringing the heels of his hands up to press hard on his eye sockets. Producing stars in his black vision, he struggled to keep the string of curse words off his tongue. 

When he opened his eyes, he tried to focus on anything but what his brain was forcing into his mind. Latching onto a lone picture frame hung on the otherwise empty wall, he recognized the two figures standing there, smiling in front of the Washington Monument. He and Rhodey hadn't spoken in a few weeks. 

Saddened by the sight of his life-long friend, he turned to face the window that, in daylight, would have given a glance to the greenery of the outside world, the excellence and magnificent nature of the Avengers compound. But in darkness, the window only acted as a mirror. And in that mirror, Tony Stark stared back at himself.

His eyes were gaunt, his cheeks slightly sunken in as a result of a lack of eating. His arms were thin, missing their usual muscle definition. The black eyes that stared back at him didn't even seem like his. He was a ghost, living in a body that was bound to kill itself if he kept up with the habits he'd developed over the last two years. 

In two years, he'd lost every sense of who he was. He knew  _ who  _ he was, but he wasn't sure how he fit into the rest of the world. He'd lost the closest people to him, inflicting a pain that he couldn't even describe. It was a betrayal that choked him, closed its long, spindly fingers around his neck and squeezed until he couldn't take a minuscule gasp for breath. 

"Sir?"

He blinked at the sound of his intelligence system. "What?" He whispered, hoarse.

"Your heart rate is far too high. Perhaps a glass of water and returning to bed will help calm you down?" The female voice was...gentle. Concerned for the well-being of her boss, her creator. 

_ Just a programmed response that I developed _ , he reminded himself solemnly, even as he obeyed FRIDAY's request.  _ She's not real, she's just supposed to  _ sound  _ like it. _

His footsteps dragged against the wooden floor as he trudged back to his lonely bedroom. He placed the glass of water on the bedside table, ready to collapse back into bed and forget about this midnight tryst. But the open drawer caught his eye, the screen lit up once again. 

_ Messages: 1 _

This time, his curiosity won out. He couldn't seem to stop his hand from clutching the flip phone, opening it and pressing a button. Setting the open phone on the pillow beside him, he rolled onto his side and closed his eyes, listening as the words filtered out of a crappy speaker and into the dead silence of his room. 

" _ Tony. Uh, I didn't really expect to be calling you. It's been so long, and I know that you're probably doing well, so...well, I didn't think I'd have to give you any bad news. Or any news, for that matter. _

_ Anyway, I'm...I'm here with Bucky. Shit, maybe it's better you didn't pick up. Um, I'm here with Bucky, and he's recovering from more mind-fuckery that a new piece of shit organization handed out to him. _ "

Even in his fatigued state, his eyebrows lifted at the foul language. 

" _ Hydra's dead, but there's another one. Cerberus, they call it. Bucky said that there could easily be two more branches than the one we discovered, but he doesn't know where. The only thing he said was that there was this woman, and she was in his head for the longest time _ —"

His eyes fluttered shut, sleep taking him. 

" _ I don't know how it works, but she could, like, talk to him in his head. And he heard her, just a few minutes ago. She said...she said your name, Tony. She told him to find you, because something's about to happen. We don't know who she is, but she knows you. She needs you, it seems. _ "

Tony's eyes opened. 


	2. New Scenery

_[november 2018]_

**HER EARS WERE** ringing when she finally came to. Her eyes opened, but it didn't do much good, as her surroundings were pitch black, giving no clue as to where she was. It was completely dark, and the high-pitched ringing in her ears kept her from hearing anything else.

As she became more aware of her body, she felt a numb tingling in her legs that resulted from loss of circulation. Her legs had been folded underneath her awkwardly, and now that she was awake, they felt weak, uncomfortable, and useless. The same went for one of her hands, the hand that she used to push herself off of the cold, hard ground that jostled beneath her touch. 

She didn't know much, but she knew that this was wrong. Everything about it was wrong, it was not supposed to be happening. But alas, she was not in control. She was in the dark, in a cage that moved, transporting her—whoever _she_ was—to a new location. 

Her hands reached out in front of her, trying any way and every way she could to get her bearings. Touching a cool substance beneath her, she felt the vibrations from the floor rise into her arms and shoulders. _We're on the ground_ , she concluded, _but we're moving._

In front of her, she discovered a broken barrier that, as she stretched her arms and felt around her, extended in a hard, barred cage that surrounded her. Above her head, only a few feet allowed her to stretch her limbs. 

With a sharp pang in her gut, she put the clues together. She was trapped. Locked in a cage, transported like an animal. Helpless. 

The darkness prevented her from seeing anything else. It was disorienting, this feeling of being suspended in an endless oblivion. There was nothing tethering her to her sanity, nothing but the jostling trip she was undoubtedly on. She had no idea if she was in a box, in a van, in a trunk, on a train. She had no idea where she was, or how big this space was. The darkness was stifling, a claustrophobic force that threatened to overtake her. 

It was awhile until she found her voice. She'd plainly forgotten she even had one. Pulling her nearly-feeling legs underneath her to sit as tall as she could, she reached with her hands to grab onto the bars that kept her trapped. When she opened her mouth the first time, no words came out. Just a pathetic, wheezing sound that echoed in the silence. She tried again. "Hey," she managed, her voice dry and hoarse from lack of use. "Hey, w-where am I?"

"Hey, be quiet."

She hadn't been expecting a response. Despite her hope that there was someone here with her, the actual response had startled her, jolting her heart and setting it at a blistering pace. The voice was close, _too_ close. She couldn't see the speaker, but they were there. The uncertainty of anything outside of her cage frightened her, and she quickly scrambled back from the bars, hitting her back on the far side. 

With the bars biting into her spine, she swallowed roughly. "Where are you taking me?" She whimpered. "W-who are you?"

This time, a different voice. Another man, she could tell, but a stranger's voice, all the same. "Shut the traitorous bitch up, dude."

There was a rustling sound as someone stood up. Her hands tensed on the floor of her cage, her legs folded up towards her chest. In the safety of her cage, she struggled to feel a shred of comfort.

A blinding light flicked on, too fast for her eyes to adjust. Next thing she knew, a dark object was coming down at her head, colliding with her face, making the darkness complete—

* * *

"Why'd you have to hit her that hard? She weighs a ton."

"Hey, would you have rather seen her figure out where we're taking her?" A pause. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Then we'd have the Chancellor's foot up all of our asses."

Her eyes were open, but only for a few moments at a time. They hardly saw anything, though. The stark contrast to the previous darkness was obvious. Instead of black, all she saw was white. Covering everything, everything that she could see...

Time had passed, but the scenery had not. The white surroundings were the same, but this time, as she looked down where her feet should be, there was a trail of red that dotted the ground. Her feet followed, trudging in the white substance— _snow_ , her consciousness reminded her. She could fell the snow on her feet, but they were not walking. She was being dragged, a sorry excuse for carrying. 

And the trail of red was perpetual, never-ending as it dripped from her nose. 

* * *

She didn't know how long it was after that. She didn't know when she woke up, or where she was, or _when_ she was. The only control she had, the only shred of control she clung to with her life, was her emotion. She kept her face steely, refusing to share any bit of fear or desperation to whomever was surrounding her. Standing against a wall in a gray room, she closed her eyes to center herself. 

"Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in," a nasally voice spoke, alerting her of someone else's presence. Her eyes opened, and she stared into the face of a man she didn't recognize, but whose name she did. "I'll make this easy for you," he said, a small smirk on his thin lips. "There's only one ending to this tragic tale of your life, 53. Do you want to hear it?"

She dared not open her mouth and give him an answer.

He made a tutting noise, pursing his lips. "Such disobedience may have been tolerated by my father, but the same will not be true with me," he warned. A humorless chuckle forced itself from his lips. "Even my brother was too soft with you, letting you run amok and get yourself into... _trouble_." The disgust with which he spoke was plain. 

_Who is he talking about?_ She asked desperately in her own mind, fighting to keep her expression neutral. _His father? His brother?_

"Your stay with us will no doubt be..." he licked his lips. " _Memorable_ ," he finished. Then, "It would be a downright _shame_ if it were to be cut short, say, with a knife to your throat?" 

He moved quicker than she was able to comprehend it. With one hand against the wall behind her, he lifted a dagger and pressed it to her throat, poised and ready to thrust it into her neck, pinning her to the wall. 

She swallowed roughly, the only movement that gave her assailant a clue to her discomfort, her anxiety, her fear. But that one movement allowed for the point of the dagger to pierce her soft skin, drawing blood. She tried to ignore the feeling of a warm droplet of blood trailing down her neck. 

The stranger let out a raucous laugh at that. "I was only kidding, 53," he said, stepping back and extending his arms to the sides in a grandiose show of what he, no doubt, thought was kindness. "There's no need to be concerned. I wouldn't kill the most valuable asset Hydra's ever seen." 

Her eyes were trained on the dagger that still hung loosely from his hands. _If only I could wrap my hands around the hilt, use it to cut him neck to belly, and get out of here,_ she thought hurriedly. 

But he had other plans. He saw her gaze on the knife, which gave him another laugh. "You want this?" He dangled it in front of her eyes, and though she wasn't restrained by any means, she knew she couldn't trust herself to grab it and fulfill what needed to be done. Instead, she just stared at the metal glinting in the light of the room. "That's what I thought," he sneered, dropping his hand and reaching out with the other. 

His cold hand grazed her cheek, cupping it as a lover might do. Her chest tightened at the familiarity of the gesture, though _his_ hands were always much warmer. Calloused, rough, but warm. 

"Such a sad story, isn't it?" He said softly, his thumb brushing her skin. It took everything in her not to jerk away from his cold, slender fingers. "My father made you. My brother broke you." He leaned closer, his deep brown eyes staring into her own. "Remember this, 53. Ethan Thompson will remake you." His hand caressed her hair while she felt the dagger on her body again, this time at her stomach, just underneath her last rib, ready to be shoved into her heart. "I will _fix_ you," he said with the utmost sincerity. 

He remained there for a few seconds in silence, just staring at her as if waiting for her to move. When she didn't, he stepped back, flipping the knife easily in his hands. "I hope to see you soon, 53," he smirked. "I hope you enjoy your stay."

She hadn't even noticed that this room had a door until he walked out of it. When the door slammed, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, sinking to the ground. Her legs were shaky, threatening to give out underneath her. Her mind was racing, going over everything she was told. She hardly had enough memories to understand it all, but the speaker's name was familiar. She couldn't figure out why, but she knew that it should have been something she knew.

And that fleeting memory of _him_ , of _his_ hands against her skin, so gentle and unassuming, it awoke something in her that she'd forgotten existed. It was one light bulb, fifty miles away in the darkness of her mind, but it was enough to read the fine print in the back of her brain.

 _My name is Jacqueline,_ she remembered, _but Tony called me Jack. And I will not go quietly into the night. I will persist, I will rebel, and I will win._


	3. Favors Asked

_[november 2018]_

"So you're telling me you're his booty call?" Happy smirked as he looked down at his wristwatch, checking the time. 

Tony scowled into his drink, downing the rest of the alcoholic beverage in one smooth gulp. The glass tapped down on the bar and he didn't even have to raise a finger for the bartender to start making him another. "I don't like that kind of talk, Happy." He clasped his hands together and looked down at his lap.

His head of security rolled his eyes, obviously knowing his personality better, but didn't perpetuate the conversation. Instead, he quietly sipped on his drink in a solemn sort of silence. The two friends weren't as good at filling the silences as they used to be; too many years apart after Berlin had to do with it. 

It was a few days after Tony was woken up at an ungodly hour of the night due to Steve Rogers' phone call. A few days since he'd been told of the existence of a woman that may as well have been a ghost by then. Such a simple sentence that had many not-so-simple consequences.

As if he even believed it, anyway. It had been—what, two years? Two years since he'd been manipulated, played with like a toy, seduced by... _her._ She'd spent months getting close to him, petting him like a professional con artist, wearing him down, just so she could kill him. And she couldn't even do it. 

He'd tuned out Happy's mindless words of conversation, his ears picking up the music that pulsed throughout the bar, a low undercurrent of the boisterous voices in the cramped space. Without meaning to, he was wrapped up in the rhythmic beat, feeling the vibrations through the floor as his mind was transported to a far away night, in a far away place, with a far away girl. 

Despite his every effort, he couldn't keep her away, especially after hearing Steve on the other line. He could see her dress, clinging to her lethal frame like a second skin, tugging at his heartstrings and refusing to let him breathe at a normal rate. Because whenever she was around, his chest constricted, his mouth ran dry, and his legs weakened. 

He could remember the way they danced together, her hands just barely touching him so as to leave him wanting more. _Craving_ it. Her eyes had looked into his, their sparkling depths so clear, yet hiding so many deadly secrets that he could never have imagined. 

And the way her head leaned in to rest on his shoulder, he could remember the feeling of pure elation he'd felt. In that moment, he'd felt as though he had everything he ever wanted. His heart had already opened to her, but it was the first time he could feel hers start to call out to him. 

But just as he'd gotten everything, he'd lost it again. 

_"Non volunt occidere me ad te, Tony."_

The words had sounded so perfect coming from her mouth, her lips brushing his ear deliciously, making him close his eyes and inhale deeply. There was no way he could have guessed the true message. He'd only found out because of FRIDAY's ever-present intelligence. She'd been right in his ear that night, filtering every foreign word that had uttered from her lips and alerted him to the threat. 

_I wish I didn't have to kill you, Tony_.

And that was the end of it. The end of what could have been, what almost was, and what he _wanted_ to be. 

"Tony?"

He jerked his head up, his eyes colliding with Happy's. His friend's hand was rubbing his back soothingly, doing his best to calm him down. 

It was then that he realized he was shaking. His hands were clutching the hem of his shirt, shaking furiously as he struggled to deal with the invading memories. His vision was blurry, and he couldn't bear to look at Happy's concerned expression, so he tucked his head into his chest. 

_Why won't you go away?_ He called out angrily into the void of his mind. 

"Tony," Happy spoke again. "Let's go home. Come on, we've been here long enough."

But if he went home, if he went back to the compound, where he slept alone without any distractions...this would only get worse. 

Sucking in a deep breath and savoring the fresh air, Tony tried to breathe normally again. He unclasped his hands from his now-wrinkled shirt and looked up at his friend. "Nope. I'm fine. We're good."

"Tony," Happy argued, "you know that's not true. Come on, I'll stay at the compound with you tonight, I don't have to go home—"

But Tony shook his head again. He wasn't going to spend another night alone, not when he felt like this. " _No_ ," he insisted, "we're staying. Come on, order another drink." His had already been set down by the bartender a minute or two ago, so he just picked it up and sighed. "I don't want to go home yet. We haven't even danced!" It was a weak attempt at lightening the mood, but it was all he could manage without his voice shaking.

Happy begrudgingly got another drink, staring at it like it was a foreign object. he fiddled with his thumbs, tapping them on the wooden surface.

"Spit it out," Tony said coolly. "I know you've got something up in that noggin."

He kept his eyes on his reflection in the mirror-like wall of the bar, taking in his warped appearance as Happy spoke up. "Well, I don't know if you're gonna like it, but..."

This time, Tony did look at his assistant. " _Happy_."

Happy sighed. "So, Steve called you. Isn't that good news?" He cleared his throat awkwardly, tugging his shirt collar away from his neck as if it were choking him. "You-you guys are gonna make up before you know it!" He added another, uncertain, "Right?" after seeing Tony roll his eyes.

"Nah," the billionaire disagreed, taking another swig of his drink and swallowing smoothly. "He only called for one reason," he said, holding up his index finger for demonstration. "Clearing his conscience, and passing the responsibility onto someone else." He moves his gaze to somewhere above Happy's head, forcing himself not to look at him. If he does, he knows he'll be forced to accept the truth. That even as he said it, he knew that it wasn't the reason Steve called.

He was just trying to make it make sense. To make it not hurt as much. 

"Not to split hairs," Happy prodded gently, almost inaudibly in the loud bar, "but that's _two_ reasons."

A deep sigh interrupted Tony's train of thought. "Two reasons, then," he conceded, "whatever. You know what I mean."

There was a shout from somewhere in the bar that got his attention, pulling him away from the bitter conversation. "Hey, what's Captain America doing on TV?"

He swung his head to look at the television screen mounted on the wall in front of him, frowning as he saw the image of Steve Rogers glowing on the screen. He could faintly hear the rumble of a reporter's voice, but the music and the noise was too loud for him to decipher it.

Surprisingly, the other patrons at the bar were intrigued by the unfolding story and called for the music to be turned down. 

"Everybody shut up! Bartender, crank the TV!"

It was a parallel universe. Sitting in a bar close to midnight, and despite the number of people in the building, the only thing that could be heard was the news on the TV.

"—as a result of the fugitives' actions, the records of Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, and Natasha Romanoff have been cleared as ordered by the CIA. The leader of the terrorist organization Cerberus, named Isaac Thompson, has been taken into custody and will answer to his crimes in Australia before coming before the United States justice system. James Barnes, previously known as the Winter Soldier created by Hydra, is reportedly recovering from countless years of brainwashing in Wakanda."

Tony couldn't help but feel a wave of relief at hearing that Nat's name was cleared, that the red was wiped from her ledger. It had been all she wanted for as long as he'd known her true identity. 

"They let that psychopath go off scot-free?" A man bellowed in the silence. "He killed hundreds of people, and they're writing him off as a mental patient?"

"Hey, fuck off! He was brainwashed. He's the victim, not the perpetrator," another patron joined in angrily.

Tony could have sat there and listened to the growing argument and soon-to-be fight, but all he could think of was Steve. His face on that TV, his name being cleared, and his bold nature to call _him_ after two years of nothing.

"God, I wish I could punch you right about now," he muttered under his breath, but there was almost no malice to his words. Only a bitter sadness and a yearning for an old life.

"Huh?" Happy asked, leaning his head in to hear over the loud yelling of the drunken patrons that were trying to decide whether or not Bucky Barnes was a victim in his torture. "What did you say?"

Tony hesitated before answering. His mind was mulling it over, unsure of what to do. Eventually, he lifted his head, slapped a few twenties on the bar and stood up. "Nothing. Let's go, Happy."

"Wha— _now?_ " Happy was bewildered, no doubt. "We're leaving?"

Tony nodded, waving his hand to summon his friend faster. "Yeah, we've got places to be, beds to sleep in, Downton Abbey to watch." He grimaced. "Well, _you_ can watch it. At your house."

As Happy began to follow him out of the bar and into the street, aiming for Tony's car, he inquired, "Tony, what's all this about? I told you, I can stay at the compound tonight if you want. Besides, you shouldn't be driving like this."

But Tony had made up his mind. He knew what he was going to do when he got back, even if he didn't want to. "I'm _fine_ , Happy. Really. Now get in the car so I can drop you off like a good teenage boyfriend."

Happy obliged, and so they went. Thanks to FRIDAY, the car drove remotely, Tony's drunkenness not putting them in danger. Happy didn't live far from the compound, but he'd already mentioned to Tony that he wasn't interested in living directly at his workplace, so he'd bought a house just a few miles away. 

After leaving a rather confused Happy at his own house, Tony ordered FRIDAY sped off down the road and quickly made his way to the compound. He was inside in no time, rushing to his lab. 

The second he got there, he paused. He hadn't been here in awhile. Well, he _had_ , just not for any specific reason. But now, staring at the computers and the space he'd come to love, he suddenly felt out of place.

There was no reason to obey Steve's request. It wasn't even a request, anyway. He'd just given him some information that dug a knife into an already festering wound. 

_I don't have to do this,_ he reminded himself. _She left_ you _. She was the one that escaped._

He could remember coming home to the tower, expecting to have to deal with Jacqueline, or Asset 53, or whoever she was. But when he'd opened the door, he instantly knew something was different. 

She was gone. Without a trace. Everything she'd brought with her, it was all gone. She'd escaped his tower and his life, never to be seen again.

She'd escaped his life, but not his heart. 

Tony ran a hand through his hair, messing it up. "Shit," he cursed under his breath. 

He looked up. "FRIDAY, you up?"

His artificial intelligence responded immediately, her voice calm and soothing. "Always, sir."

He sucked in a deep breath, embracing the icy cold claw that held his heart in its grip. "Mind helping me out with something?"


	4. Always Watching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally getting back to this story after forever! this time, i'm gonna finish it!

_[january 2019]_

Time had passed, that much she knew. The real question was, _how much?_ How long had it been since she'd felt a cool breeze against her face, brushing the hair from her eyes? How long had it been since she'd touched the grass with her feet, the soft earth squishing beneath her toes? Too long.

It took everything in her to not bang her head against the wall, just hard enough to end it and take herself out of this misery. She knew she was strong enough to do it, if she really wanted to. And she did, she _really wanted to._

For days, she stared at the gray walls around her, nothing in her cell save a hard mattress and a bucket that they made her use as a chamber pot. It was barbaric, meant to humiliate her more than anything else. Despite the sour taste in her mouth at the medieval method, she fought to keep her face calm when her guards came in to empty and clean the bucket. 

Besides, thanks to her previously failed attempts at escape, she had no choice but to act calm. They were bringing guns in now. Not tasers, or clubs to merely render her unconscious, no. They meant business. If she didn't comply, they had no issue terminating her.

So much for Hydra's most precious asset. It seemed that Asset 53 was no more, leaving a nameless, pitifully broken woman behind.

_Tony called me Jack._

It was the only thing that kept her from ending it all. A meager reason, but a reason nonetheless that she gripped tightly in her hand and refused to let go. _Tony called me Jack._

She didn't think of herself as anyone, really. She didn't feel like she had a name, or deserved one. Not after all she'd done. Hell, she couldn't even remember everything that she'd done, but the dark, icy feeling in her gut that threatened to strangle her everyday told her enough. She was a monster, created to do monstrous things.

Although she knew nothing about herself, or where she was being kept, it would have been stupid not to try and escape. Break out of her cell and find her way out of this place. She had no idea what she would do after that; she couldn't even begin to imagine a sense of freedom. Her entire existence had been as a tool, a slave for kings and queens that needed someone to do their bidding. No questions asked.

There was one time when she tried to escape. It felt like ages ago, but it must have only been a month. Time blended together in this concrete cell, keeping her from knowing what year she was in, much less the time of day.

Something inside of her reminded her of the brutal force she used to be, in another life. Or was it the same life? There was no way of knowing; her mind was food for crows. Any image or thought in her head felt like it was tampered with, misconstruing whatever form of truth she might have known, once upon a time.

It was when four guards came in, emptying and cleaning her bucket, as well as giving her a glass of water and a slice of buttered bread. A pitiful meal, but more than what she had expected. They'd come in, two of them standing guard at the door, one emptying the bucket, the other tossing her food at her.

"Eat up, traitor," he'd snarled at her, in a language that wasn't English, yet she understood. She couldn't remember what it was, or why she knew it. Or why he called her a traitor.

There wasn't anything particularly exciting about her first attempt at escape. It was a routine procedure, one that had been happening each day for however long she'd been kept there. They'd made her stand against the far wall of her cell, facing the cold cement with her hands above her head. She wasn't permitted to turn around until they left.

But this time was different, albeit particularly uneventful. They'd never spoken to her before. It was always a quick routine. Get in, get out. No one had spoken to her since she'd had a knife held to her throat by Ethan Thompson, the man who she assumed was supposed to be the leader of whatever this group was. _She_ had hardly spoken since then, her voice no doubt softer now with lack of use.

Just before the four guards left her to rot alone in her cell, something inside of the ghost snapped. She hardly processed what she was doing until it was too late. Her legs bent in a readying stance, whirling around and charging for the door of her cell. She couldn't remember if she yelled, screamed, or had any exclamation of rage, though it wouldn't have made any difference. 

In the next precious moments of her attempt at escape, the washed-out memories of another life in which she was a powerful being laced with muscle and brute force proved to be another fantasy, put there either by her own volition or their manipulation. 

Her knee had jerked up into the stomach of one of the guards, in the hopes of making them keel over in shocked pain. She curled her fingers into a fist, pulling her arm back and releasing a punch that was meant to crash into another guard's jaw. Anything to make them let go of their weapons, opening up the door for her to make her escape. 

Of course, her wish of strength was a figment of her imagination, and her escape attempt quickly turned sour as she realized that the guard she kneed had hardly moved, a solid unmoving wall in front of her means of escape. The guard she had punched—had _thought_ she punched—received only a slap from her fist rather than a resounding crack.

His mouth curled into a sinister snarl, his eyes sparkling with pure evil. For a second, the ghost finally felt something: fear. 

"Oh, I've been waiting for an excuse to use this, 53," he chuckled darkly, still in that language that she didn't know how she knew. He tightened his grip on his weapon. 

Although she hated herself for it, she cringed away from the guard, stumbling back on bare feet in an attempt to distance herself from them, going deeper into her cell. It was morbidly comical, how in the span of seconds, the only place she felt safe was the same place that she'd been trying to escape. 

One of the other guards nudged the man with the gun. "Unless we have the Chancellor's orders, we never use force on an asset," she said, her voice holding a stern authority. "Put it down."

In response, he simply scowled, using the barrel of the large gun to point at his prey. "She's not an asset, she's a _liability_. It would do well for the Chancellor to have her killed." He looked around at the other two guards who were still behind her, trapping her between them. "What do you say, Karlsson? One less traitor means more food for us." He received no response.

The ghost in the cell was frozen, unable to move. She wasn't sure it was the best idea, considering her murder was being talked about freely in her presence. She couldn't even close her eyes to force herself to think of something else. All she could see was the barrel of the gun, the small hole staring right at her. 

" _Put it down_ ," the female guard spoke again, her voice dripping with venom. "You don't want your supervisor finding out, do you?"

Mention of authority finally got his attention, and he begrudgingly lowered his weapon from the disgraced asset. "No one needs to know," he spoke gruffly. Flicking his head in the direction of the cell door, he led his three colleagues out of her room. He glanced back at her with a fiery glare, as if he wanted to say something else to her, but thought better of it and clutched the door in his grip, slamming it shut.

She hated that she jumped at the noise it produced when it clicked into place. 

* * *

The days had passed slowly since her escape attempt. She was visited with six guards instead of four when she was given food, though she didn't know if the extra two guards were for her or the man that had threatened her life. Perhaps what the woman had warned of had actually happened; maybe his supervisor was told of his threat and was now being reprimanded.

 _Doubtful,_ a voice in her head said, washing away her childish hope. _If he were being punished, he wouldn't be here to flash his smug face at your every blink._

She decided that she didn't much like the voice inside her head. It was terribly realistic, when all she wanted—all she _needed_ right now—was a little bit of hope. 

But the way they treated her in here, scowling at her like she was a monster, it made her wonder if she even deserved the reprieve a little bit of hope would give her. It made her wonder what she'd done to get herself locked up in an empty cell, treated like an animal.

 _It's probably because you_ are _an animal_ , the voice appeared again. _You're an animal that won't behave._

 _Shut up,_ the ghost thought fiercely, sitting up in her cot and pressing the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. White stars erupted in her otherwise black vision with the added pressure. She thought that if she could just press hard enough, the voice would go away, she would be left with a quiet, empty mind again. 

Because despite her loneliness, she would gladly take an empty mind over a blunt presence that refused to let her rest.

The voice didn't respond. _Of course not_ , she thought, _it was just my subconscious. Not an actual person._

Somewhere deep in her mind, towards the back of her head, she felt a nudge. Not quite a headache, but something in her mind unlocked like the click of a key opening a centuries-old treasure chest.

With her mind focused, she could hear several pairs of boots slamming on the concrete floor outside her door, stalking closer and closer, ready for her inspection. 

Right on cue, her stomach growled. She looked down at her threadbare shirt in disgust, betrayed by her own hunger. 

_Think, Jack,_ the voice of her subconscious returned. _Remember who you are. Remember what you can do._

It wasn't any help, as she couldn't remember who she was, much less what she could do. She supposed she knew her name, as well as one other. _Tony_. 

She could hear the footsteps get louder, though they must have still been a hundred yards away from the cell door. _How do I know that?_ The ghost wondered, furrowing her brow. 

_You are more than this sack of bones,_ the voice reminded her. _You are more than this. Remember. Find a way to get out._

Jack wasn't entirely looking forward to trying another escape attempt since the last one went so poorly, but the ghost was so desperate for freedom that there was nothing to be done except prepare. For what, neither entities knew. Either freedom or torture. Very possibly, freedom or death.

The next minute passed in what only felt like a few seconds. Before she knew it, Jack was standing by the door, poised and ready for battle. Her bare feet begged to differ, as would her meager shirt and pants that hadn't been changed since she'd been put in this goddamn cell. 

"My name is Jack," she whispered to center herself. "My name is Jack. I need to find Tony." She didn't know _why_ she needed to find Tony, and she hardly had any clue as to who he was, but her subconscious knew enough. She needed to escape this prison, and she needed to find Tony.

Her ears pricked at the sudden silence in the corridor, the footsteps from outside the door halted now. Curling her fingers into fists again, she leaned back on her haunches.

The door opened, and Jack leapt at the first face she saw. It happened to be the woman from her first escape attempt, the one who'd stopped her colleague from killing her. Without knowing how she did it, she watched her fists collide with the woman's jaw, catching her off-guard. Another kick was delivered to her stomach, effectively making her keel over. 

She didn't know what was happening, just that somehow, she'd broken through to some form of muscle memory that had taken over her body. Watching herself fight off six guards at once, she was—for once—thankful for whatever she'd been before her brain had been put in a blender.

The ghost would have been afraid of the guns in her face, but her lips curled into a sneer. " _Ta det, jävlar!_ " She screamed in her hoarse voice, the words spewing from her mouth without her brain realizing she was speaking a foreign language. _Take that, fuckers!_

Her legs were not her own as she administered several kicks to the legs of her guards, some of them landing a few feet too high and taking down the men of the squadron, incapacitating them long enough for her to seize the moment and crash through the open doorway. 

Her eyes were wide as she took in the dark hallway outside of her bright cell. It was like she was trapped in an unused section of this place, and her ears couldn't pick up any nearby sounds of life.

There was no time to think, however, no time to analyze either direction outside of her cell where six guards groaned and struggled to put themselves back together. She could only hope that she could run fast enough and long enough to get out of here, wherever _here_ was.

Jack took off down the corridor, running the direction that the guards had come, hoping she would run into the wild. If she ran into someone, she was better off dead, she knew that much. There wasn't any hope in her muscle memory anymore, she didn't know when it would be making another surprise appearance. She was completely on her own, just a ghost of a person with a name that she hardly recognized.

Unfortunately, the long days and prolonged lack of muscular activity suddenly appeared. Her legs cramped within ten paces of sprinting down the corridor, and a stitch in her side threatened to make her collapse on the cold, hard ground.

 _Keep going_ , she prayed, _just keep running, you have to keep_ —

A shock of pain exploded in her head and she cried out, falling to the ground with her hands over her ears. A high-pitched whine crackled in her brain, making her vision bleed into white. Her knees hit the concrete, digging into the hard ground. 

Letting out a bloodcurdling scream, Jack could hardly see six pairs of black boots running toward her before she felt the fight leave her body, surrendering to the overwhelming darkness that washed over her.

* * *

The first thing she felt when she stirred was the pulsing headache that coursed through her brain, refusing to let up and allow her to breathe. It was nearly unbearable, a pounding, unforgiving heartbeat inside of her skull. 

Her eyes were open, she knew that. But she couldn't see anything. Only a wall of black met her, forbidding her from knowing where she was, or if anyone was there with her.

She was laying on a mattress that she could feel with her hands that splayed out beside her hips. Based on the lumpy nature of it, she assumed it was the cot in her cell. 

Her throat clenched, her eyes squeezing shut. _Don't you dare cry_ , she scolded herself. _You don't cry_. 

It was hard to swallow her tears, but she managed, inhaling sharply. Her plan had failed, although she had to admit that it wasn't much of a plan to begin with. 

_That's all you need,_ she thought to herself, _you just need a better plan. That's how you get shit done, with a_ plan.

Her vision didn't return for another ten minutes, when she finally managed to look around and find herself still in her empty cell. The door was shut, but it looked somehow more sinister at this angle than before.

She didn't dare try to sit up for fear of passing out with too much motion. Instead, she stared at the door, _hard._ As if willing it to open. 

Deep in her head, she felt the treasure chest open again. And for a second, she remembered something. She wasn't sure _what_ she remembered, as it was a fleeting thing that hardly materialized in her brain before washing away again, falling into the abyss of her muddled memory.

 _I need help,_ she spoke in her head. _I need help because I don't know how to get out of here._

She didn't know what she was doing, only that it was necessary for some reason. Maybe it was the flicker of a memory that made her do it, or maybe she was finally going crazy after so long in this damn prison. Because she could have sworn she was _talking to someone_. She didn't know who would be listening, or if someone was even there. 

But she believed it. She had to, if she was going to get out of here. She had to believe in something, however insane it may turn out to be. 

_I am some kind of monster, and I'm being held in a cage. Help me. I don't know what's real. I don't know if_ you're _real._

The cage in her head released, just a tiny bit, and she could feel...a disturbance. Something in her head that felt like another being. Another person, or another mind. Something that wasn't hers.

Her headache took her out before she could think more on the matter though, the pain too much to bear. She let the darkness envelope her once again, not knowing the next time she would wake up. 

She only knew one thing: she wasn't alone. Someone was with her, whether it was the people who'd put her in here, or someone she wasn't privy to yet. The cold feeling still said the same thing.

There was someone watching her. Somehow.


End file.
